Open up the shutters on my eyes. She is my rage and angst. I talk to her sometimes, I felt her grab my hand as I led the way. We tend to talk outside as inside brings rage and upset. I think I am clinging onto my youth rather than living in a present world.

​

Teenagers imagine dying young because death is more imaginable than the person that all the decisions and burdens of adulthood may make of you.

The future is dark, with a darkness as much of the womb as of the grave.

Despair demands less of us, it's more predictable, and, in a sad way, it's safer.

Often the road to the future leads through the past.

Paradise is not the place in which you arrive but the journey towards it.

​

We hate each other. I'm yelling at myself and as a result, I'm hurting all these little ones inside me. Please don't look at me. I'm not craving sympathy. I'm angry at myself. Self-injury without the self. It's embarrassing. It's chaotic. I feel chaotic. It's self-masochistic. I am bullying myself into a stable submission. 

​

I always feel like I'm playing it safe. Maybe I'm just playing it clever. Forcing people to watch.If I'm dragging myself into emotional turmoil, I'm dragging you down with me. Am I terrible person for making people hurt? I'm a horrible person or am I? No one cares really. It's my fault.

I want a new life. A fear of ostricisation that I didn't belong in where I'm living. Felt like I'm in a bubble, spectating all those around. It's all so confusing. It feels intrusive with her watching. Hypnotic. I'm not entirely within myself. Nostalgic or dissociative, like this reality I'm in isn't quite real. I'm not real. Maybe I died here, or thought about dying here. It's disorientating, am I destined to remain walking forever? Perhaps it's nice to be hidden. I am between death and life, I am meant to laugh and not meant to laugh. Looking in and looking out. Once art begins to look like life, how are we to distinguish between the two? How can I represent something that doesn't exist? A fixation on the visible, trust. I'm suddenly very aware of my humanness. OH, PLEASE LET ME DIE. A symbolic death. Potential infinity.

​

Time does not exist. Only the pool, the water, the moment before the jump, the submerging. What's in the void? Everything feels patchy.

​

The body is the medium for having a world. I'm scared to accept my flesh, I don't want to not exist. Why aren't you letting me be happy? 

​

This is a way of causing myself pain. Exploiting myself and hoping that people enjoy it. That way I can convince myself that this is right, to make myself feel like an even worse person. I'm scared about how I'll come off. I revolve my identity around those around me. I have no conceivable idea of who I am without anyone telling me first. I can't exist in limbo. I've spiralled into a non-existence. 

​

I'm too scared to open that door. I'm not sure who I am without you. Without you, I do not exist.